It's You That I Hold Onto
by smc-27
Summary: An empty space on the bed. A quiet home they used to share. His books everywhere, just like they always were. The only thing she's missing is him. He's the only thing she really cares about anyway. All he left were pieces. LP Oneshot


**A/N:** I was challenged to write this. 1,000 words, death of a character. I was given 2.5 hours to complete a oneshot. This is the result!

**----**

She really never thought she'd be alone again. She thought she'd have him, his love, and...him. Forever. He'd promised her, told her that he'd never leave. That he wasn't going anywhere. That he couldn't live without her. And she'd believed him because he'd never lied to her before.

But he'd done the one thing he said he'd never do, and she was left wondering if there was anything she could have done and why he was gone and what she did to deserve a fate so cruel.

She put on one of his favourite albums, one she loved, and she contemplated what she'd use to replace him. She wished she had a vice. She'd never been a smoker, or much of a drinker, and she couldn't do either of those anyway. She wanted nothing more than to fill his space in her life with something. She knew it was useless to even try.

Nothing would even come close.

And it hadn't really sunk in yet that he was gone. He left quickly and without warning, and it was all just too hard to believe. She knew that when it hit her, the pain would be more, and worse, and all-consuming and devastating. Yet she found herself craving that. Crying instead of disbelief. Hurt instead of shock. She wanted to curl up and break down and scream and curse the world.

And maybe him, just a little bit.

She laid down on the bed she'd shared with him for so many nights. She hadn't yet changed the sheets, and when she smelled his cologne on the pillowcase where his head should have been resting, she felt her chin quiver and the tears begin to pool.

That scent would only stay there as long as she left those sheets unwashed. Even then, it would dissipate and eventually begin to smell like her.

And then she'd never have that smell again.

That was the first wave of pain. Laying in the dark with his favourite music and his smell, but not him. All she had were memories. She'd never have him.

The tears stained her pillow, and she wasn't sure when it happened, but she fell asleep that way, alone in an empty bed, laying atop the covers and wishing he was with her.

She cleaned the entire house for no reason other than she needed something to do. She needed to keep busy and keep herself from getting lost in the memories of a man who wasn't there. But every time she picked up one of his many hardcover books, or moved a photograph of the two of them, she'd wear down a little bit more.

She replaced the towels in the bathroom before realizing that she now only needed one. He'd never sneak into the shower with her and hand her a towel after he stepped out. She only needed one towel in the bathroom now, and that was an absolutely _heartbreaking_ thought. So she took the clean, folded terry cloth and brought it to her face as she stood there in the hallway of her home, completely breaking down.

She wasn't sure how long she sat there on the hardwood, broken and crying and clutching a towel just for something to hang onto, but when she finally had the strength to move, it was dark again, and she'd somehow made it through another day without him. How, she still didn't know.

She went back into the bedroom - the room that had been his since he was a child, but now was only hers - where they'd spent so many nights talking or laughing or making love, and she went to tuck one of the photos of the two of them into a drawer, just because she couldn't look at them, captured in that moment, both happy and smiling. And she found his vows, handwritten in his sloppy cursive, with words scratched out and replaced with better ones.

So she read them; the promises he didn't get to make in front of her and all their friends. She spent that night exactly like the one before; crying, getting lost in the scent of him on the pillow. Now, his written words were next to her on the night stand atop a copy of his first novel.

The pain hit her like a ton of bricks the next day when she awoke, and she couldn't move. She could only cry for all the things they'd never share. And when a knock at the door threatened to get her out of bed in the afternoon, she didn't get up. The door still swung open, and she was still told that everything would work out, and she was still wrapped in a pair of arms that should have comforted her. His brother sitting there with tears in his eyes and her in his arms and making promises she wasn't ready to believe.

But none of it mattered.

All that mattered was that she didn't have _him_.

Two weeks, thousands of tears, and a lot of anger later, she finally got the nerve to talk to him. She got dressed, put on a pair of sunglasses to hide the sleeplessness and redness and devastation in her eyes, and went to see him.

She sat down on the grass, rest her hand on her growing stomach, and stared at the last name that would have been hers in a few short months, etched in stone before her. And she cried again because she just couldn't help it.

"God, I miss you..."

It was the only thing she could manage. It was the only thing that really meant anything anyway.

_**-Fin-**_


End file.
